Postscript
by Oleander's One
Summary: A duty-haunted Warden separated from his Crow finds his lifeline in a series of letters, until they stop coming.
1. Chapter 1

"_It is a curious thing, my Warden. It has been what … a dozen weeks, and I have yet to come to terms with a city that is not the one I left a year ago."_

"_Make no mistake, it is pleasant to walk the streets without fear of the ground shifting beneath me and a mass of filthy beasts boiling up from the breach. More pleasant yet that the Masters seed the bands of fumblers they send after me with the odd challenge—I had some concern that my skills might deteriorate without the daily quota of howling demons."_

"_The familiar trills of the minstrels' lillo flutes accompany me as I skim the rooftops, reacquainting myself with some old friends, leaving gifts for others. I savor the spice and heat of a stolen cup of chowder as I catch my breath in a forgotten alcove, but some note—some flavor or tone—eludes me. The young _hombres_ and _chicas_ strut and display themselves like so many rare birds, but leave me unmoved."_

"_Do not smirk so, _tesoro_, it is most unbecoming. It is in your mind, no doubt, that it is I who has changed, grown, gained perspective while exiled in your rustic land. Such fantasies, tch; save those for richer fare. Shall I describe what I am wearing?"_

"_Z."_

A smile briefly lit Istan Mahariel's drawn face as he flipped back to the first page of the letter. There was a brief knock on his door, and Alistair entered with Seneschal Varel. All three men were armed and armored—not typical garb for a fealty ceremony, though prudent when the last lord the nobles had sworn themselves to was Rendon Howe.

"I'm still not sure that it's wise to put me forward as your second, Alistair." Istan frowned. "With the conflicts between some of the farmers and Keeper Derii's clan, it sounds as if we may have enough trouble with the bann and the minor lords without forcing them to work with another Dalish."

"I'm afraid that the attitudes of the lesser nobles are much influenced by the greater, and the Howes have ruled Amaranthine since the days of Calenhad," Varel added. "With the exception of Warden Nathaniel, the Howes were … a bit hidebound."

"Well, Alistair, it sounds like it's up to the Warden-Commander to put his friendly human face forward as much as possible tonight. It wouldn't do to have the nobles believe their arling is being taken over by wild, heathen elves. Good thing you had a bit of practice during the Landsmeet and Anora's coronation."

"Wonderful. For future reference? Not my happy face."

"Look at it this way—the odd day here, or every day in Denerim."

Alistair brightened. "Perspective is a marvelous thing."

Istan refolded Zevran's letter and placed it with his other personal papers, fingers tracing over the seal before sliding the drawer closed. He straightened, schooled his wandering thoughts, and followed the the two men out the door.

~oOo~

"_I have heard much of Amaranthine and its heroic Wardens of late, _querido_. A friend at the compound here in Antiva claims you have recruited into your ranks a host of maleficarum, the walking dead, even one of your cousins, whom the Commander's feral Dalish second takes to his bed with a bevy of her nubile clansisters. I'm not entirely sure whether to feel pride that you contented yourself with but this one failed, stunningly handsome assassin throughout the entire Blight, or aggrieved that you did not encourage me to delay my departure for a time, that I might participate in such activities before attending to my former colleagues. We have much to discuss when next we meet, my Warden."_

"_Your humble Crow has had not the opportunity for such diversions, I am sorry to say. We have drawn many of the disaffected to our cause, but with each conflict, the toll is high. Of my lieutenants, only Salvail, Amande, and Tabora are still with me. Two Masters have fallen to our blades, and two to our arguments; the remaining three barricade themselves behind walls they believe impregnable."_

"_Even for one such as I, there is a point beyond which it is disturbing to tread. The … _carniceria_, the butchery, it is not … Ah, but that is not for these brief notes. Picture me at your side, on the bank of some sun-dappled, hidden cove. Use your imagination."_

"_Z." _

"... but we'll need at least two or three additional squads to keep our numbers up, to make up for those wounded protecting the farmers. Amaranthine has no men to spare, so I'm sending inquiries to Highever and Denerim," Alistair finished.

"Hm."

"Also, one of the miners struck Old God yesterday, and it's demanding sacrifices. I offered Velanna, but it didn't want that one. I wonder if Anora might be making a progress any time soon?"

"She didn't say anything at the Lands… What?" Istan shook his head. "Sorry, Alistair. You were saying something about more soldiers?"

"I was, but I think that's enough for one evening." Alistair dropped the report back on his desk. "Istan. Would you like to talk? About anything? You're working from dawn to dusk every day with no ..."

"I don't think so. It's what we sign up for, isn't it?" He paused at the door. "Thank you, my friend."

~oOo~

"_We were betrayed, of course. It is expected in our line of work, though you cannot always sense it when it closes with you. Master Ezequiel is dead, but at a very great cost. Ignacio is dead and we are implicated, though we know very well from which direction that arrow flew._

"_I am not one to speak plainly, my Warden, but recent events have … _braska!_ It is you in my mind and my heart, _carino._"_

"_Z."_

"The outer gates are breached! The outer gates are breached!" A group of blood-soaked soldiers led by Garavel limped through the inner gates just before they were closed and barred. Over the confusion and shouting, Istan could hear and feel the pounding approach of another armored ogre.

"Nate, how is Velanna?" Istan could see that the dressing around her upper arm had soaked through, and she was only semi-lucid.

"She'll be all right, if we can spare someone to keep her quiet. I've got the break splinted, and the bleeding has stopped." Nathaniel was bloodied and battered, but the brief rest had restored him.

Despite a blow to the head from an ogre that would have likely killed any of the rest of them, a healing draught and a long pull from his hip flask had Oghren pacing and cursing in his anxiousness to get back to the battle.

"All right." Istan motioned the two men to follow him. "This will be a little interesting without spells or healing, but we had better get to it."

"That's the spirit, Warden!" Oghren bellowed and took another swig from his flask. "Let_ 'em come. _Ol' Oghren has something _interesting_ brewing just for those ugly bastards!"

~oOo~

Several months of burning, grieving, and coming to grips with the devastation on two fronts, and the arling was starting to rebuild. It had been as long since Zevran's last, terribly brief letter.

Alistair had suggested, cajoled, and finally resorted to a direct command for Istan to take a rest day. He paced his office instead, pausing frequently to monitor the progress in the courtyard and watch for riders from the city. He turned from the window at a knock at the door. "Where is that damned letter courier? It's been a week since …"

"Expecting a missive from an admirer, _tesoro_? Something lurid, I imagine."

Istan froze for a moment, cataloging the changes that a year had etched on Zevran. Impressions of pain, exhaustion, sorrow, and myriad others lay under a granite-hard control that Istan had seen only echoes of previously.

"Your hair is longer," Istan blurted, and winced. After a year of aching loneliness and fear, his lover was suddenly close enough to touch, and Istan could only stare and mumble inanities at the man whose absence had left him desolate.

Zevran's eyes softened. "I have been too long from your side, my Warden. Your lascivious words, they shock me anew."

Istan choked and without conscious movement, found himself in Zevran's arms, clutching at him desperately and repeating the same two words over and over. Eventually he drew back slightly. "You're here."

"As you say, _carino_. And have, repeatedly." Zevran smiled. "That I am here at all is something of a surprise to me as well, I assure you. It has been an interesting year."

"Can you … stay?"

The smile dimmed a fraction. "For a time. Let us speak of it later."

"Of course. I want to hear everything."

Zevran kissed him gently. "You do not want to hear everything, _cielito_," he whispered, "but I will tell you most."

"Zev, I didn't think I'd …"

"I know, my Warden." He kissed Istan, desperate and demanding. "But we agreed later was for words, yes?"

"Yes. That's … yes. Later is … yes."

~oOo~

"I couldn't quite manage a 'sun-dappled cove'." Istan stretched and turned onto his side, lazily tracing the black tattoos that curved over Zevran's bronzed cheek. They had ridden out early, laden with blankets and food for a quiet day away from the Vigil.

Zevran half-opened his eyes and smiled. "With you in that fine state of undress? Everything else is merely backdrop." He breathed in deeply. "A cool, misty morning deep in a fragrant evergreen forest. It is enough to make me wish to go for a brisk hike, catch some fish for our dinner, or something equally industrious. Fortunately, I am exceptionally well-trained, and these urges recede if I simply lie down for a time."

"Truly you are a man of restraint, _lethallin_."

"So good of you to notice, at long last." It was quite pleasant to do nothing more than rest at the side of his Warden and listen to the birds and the chittering of the tiny forest rodents. "In Antiva we do not have the very large trees, nor the cool mists that cling to the forests. It can be harsh in the summer, when all is parched; the grape vines and olive trees must twist and dig into the rocky ground for traces of water to survive. But when the rains come, and the hills burst with color … Ah, you must come see how beautiful it is."

Zevran caught the play of emotion on Istan's face before he looked away. "I did not mean to …"

"It's all right, Zev. You know I would go with you if I could." Istan rolled on his back, his eyes moving with the scudding clouds. "I didn't ask for this duty, but I …" He stopped and shook his head. "We've talked through all that already, and I don't want to ruin this time with you."

Zevran smiled and snaked an arm around Istan's waist. "My Warden, nothing could ruin this time we have. I am, however, finding myself a bit chilled. Perhaps we should build a fire to warm ourselves?"

Istan suddenly rolled Zevran over and pinned him to the blanket. "A fire is the first thing you think of to warm yourself? Tch. You were the one that enjoined me to use my imagination, _emma lath._ Where is yours?"

"That is not my imagination, _querido_."

~oOo~

Istan woke ten days later, alone in his bed. Zevran stood at the window; armed, armored, and silent.

"You're leaving."

"I am leaving," Zevran agreed quietly and turned to face Istan. "I have delayed as long as I might. As your duty compels you to stay, mine compels me to return and see this through. We are changing a country, and that is not a thing lightly done. Even for one so ridiculously awesome." A ghost of a smile faded quickly into the cool mask that was once again in place.

"Zev …"

"I have some hope that the situation will be more settled in a year. Perhaps then we might …" He straightened. "Come. See me off, my Warden."

Alistair rode with them as far as the Amaranthine gates, claiming business in the city. Knowing his friend, Istan knew it was more likely a simple offer of companionship, so he wouldn't need to ride back to the keep alone.

At the dock, Zevran pulled Istan close for a last heated kiss. _"Algun dia."_ He walked to his ship, not looking back.

"What are you doing, Istan?" Alistair appeared at his side.

"What am I … what?"

"Why are you letting the best thing in your life sail away from you? Letting duty that you never asked for keep you from living the life you deserve, after giving more to that duty than anyone could ask? This after two years of patiently helping your best friend become a semi-competent Arl and Commander who can perhaps, just perhaps, stand on his own?"

Istan gaped at him.

"And Morrigan said I was the stupid one. Go! Off with you!"

"But …"

"Right. I'll draft a letter for the Antivan Warden-Commander and forward it to you to present to him. A liaison between the Fereldan Wardens and those of the northern countries is vital if we are to rebuild our order. If the Antivans or Rivainis happen to have an excess of recruits, send them our way." Alistair dug at his belt purse, pouring the coins into Istan's. "That's all I have on me. You have your armor and swords, I'll send everything else and say your good-byes. Don't forget to write, and have a nice … Maker! They've slipped the hawsers—go!"

Istan embraced his friend and raced for the ship. Halfway there, two seamen started to pull the gangplank until Zevran noticed Istan and pushed them both away. In his haste, Istan tripped as he jumped to the deck, landing in a tangle with his assassin.

"Always the graceful, cat-like reflexes, my Warden. Will we need to dodge pursuit from our handsome templar?" Zevran kissed him and laughed.

"Quite the opposite. I may need a loan for the shipment of Manchego I'm planning to send him when we make Antiva, however."

"I think you'll find my rates quite reasonable." Zevran smirked.

"Oh? I was rather hoping for unreasonable." Istan pulled him down for a more extended greeting.

"I think we can work out the details, _amor_, at long last."

~oOo~

"_Dreams are strange things, my friend. I could not have imagined mine—if I had, I doubt I would have thought to add wall-clinging lizards and projectile perspiration—but it seems all the sweeter for that. I wish you all the best with yours._

"_Zevran sends his 'affectionate greetings'. No, I don't think you should dwell too long on that, either."_

"_I."_

* * *

_This was a gift for the very talented artist/writer Ventisquear for the CMDA 2012 holiday fiction exchange. I had a great time with my first Zev outing, Vent; Merry Christmas! _

_Many thanks to mille libri for the sharp betaing and suggestions._


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you remember what you told me the last time we were in the Brecilian? That night before we found Zathrian's clan." Istan handed Zevran his share of the rabbit, just off the flame, as he settled next to his lover near the fire.

Returned to Ferelden after a dozen years in Antiva, they took their time traveling south from Amaranthine to the forest east of South Reach. Still healthy despite his advanced age, Istan's scarred, scrappy mabari Perro accompanied them, seeming pleased to have returned to the land and smells of his youth.

Zevran glanced at his Warden as he started in on the rabbit. There was a sprinkling of silver in Istan's dark brown hair and a few fine lines at the corners of his green eyes, but he was still the most arresting man that Zevran had ever met. Gathering his wandering thoughts, he applied himself to dinner and the question put to him.

"You may need to narrow the scope, _carino;_ I believe that I told you a great many things in the weeks we spent with your cousins." Zevran shook his head and sighed. "As I recall, you were pursuing me to the exclusion of all else, to the point that I needed to deliver many a stern lecture on minding your duties."

Istan nodded. "Wynne kept asking me when I was going to just carry you off and have my way with you, but you were steadfast."

"Do not get me started on that one—the 'Temptress of the Tower', was that not what Greagoir called her when he warned against taking her into our company? Always brushing up against me by 'accident' and commenting on my physical attributes. Shameful."

"Shocking," Istan agreed. "But I was referring to what you told me about running away to the Dalish as a boy, and how clan life did not live up to your expectations."

"As I was all of fourteen at the time, I might have anticipated more nudity and frolicking and less actual labor than may have been realistic. I believe my expectations to be better adjusted now that I have one or two more years under my belt."

Istan laughed. "You aren't the one with more grey than brown in his hair." He leaned in to examine one of the assassin's long braids. "Though there are a few."

"Tch. Only platinum amongst the gold, my friend. Speaking of Wardens in their dotage, I could not help but notice that our handsome templar has filled out a shade."

"Sigrun's a fine cook, and hilariously susceptible to Alistair's puppy eyes. I suggested that they may need to chase each other around the bedroom more often to work off the good food; she seemed quite agreeable to the suggestion." Istan leaned back and moved his feet closer to their small campfire. "I've enjoyed this, _ma vhenan_. Well, once the new blisters from all the walking healed, at any rate." He chuckled briefly, then sobered. "This time together, just the two of us; it's been a long time since I've had you all to myself."

"It is a change, certainly," Zevran allowed. "No servants to present us with the finest foods and wines to tempt the palate and tease the senses, no cell masters plotting against each other and vying for my patronage, no royal princesses whispering their wicked desires in my ear while their brothers cast longing glances from across the table. No perfumed baths, no decadent, deliciously soft feather beds, no silk sheets. Can you guess how I miss it, my Warden?"

"I ..."

Zevran smiled warmly and ran a fingertip lightly up the familiar sweep of Istan's elegantly-pointed ear, leaning in to retrace the path with lips and tongue. "Not at all."

Istan shuddered and buried his face in Zevran's silky hair, breathing in the heady, spicy scent of his lover. "You don't miss home? You're sure?"

"You, my Warden, are all the home I require."

~oOo~

According to the scouts, Istan's clan had wintered in the valley to the south of the werewolf ruins, near the permanent settlement of mixed Dalish and city elves. With the clearing of the passes, they now journeyed to their usual summer range in the hills to the south of Redcliffe.

"We should overtake the clan today. Shall we press on?" Zevran asked, after they had struck the tent and packed up the cooking utensils and blankets.

Istan sat cross-legged near the fire with a short length of basswood and a tiny knife, a small fisherman taking shape as he worked. During the Blight, the Warden had taken to keeping several of these little carved people in his pack, to give to the frightened refugee children that they met in their travels. Several of the figures had somehow ended up in the possession of his brother Warden, who now commanded a small army of the miniature wooden Fereldans on his desk at the Vigil.

"Actually, the clan seems to have found us." Istan smiled and put away the knife and wood, kicking dirt over the fire.

"_¡Mierda!_" Zevran swore as a pair of Dalish hunters dropped lightly out of the trees. He returned his daggers to their sheaths. "_Bendita_ Andraste. _I n__unca se acostumbrará a que."_

"Junar, Fenarel." Istan clasped forearms with the grinning hunters. "It's been many years."

"With what the clan has gone through since you left, _lethallin_, it feels like a hundred," Junar said.

"And that Keeper you sent to us." Fenarel shook his head. "She has more energy than a herd of halla, and expects all of us to keep up with her. I always thought that Keepers were born serene, but not this one. Elani is as different from Marethari as the sun from the moon, and precisely whom the clan needed. _Ma serannas_, Mahariel."

"I believe that you met my mate, Zevran, when we encountered the clan moving north?" Istan nodded at the assassin.

"Ah yes—the 'One Who Watches', we called him, such was his absorption with a certain Dalish Grey Warden." Junar smirked.

"And once more I am falsely accused of whatever it is that I am accused of. Falsely." Zevran sighed. "No one understands me."

"Oh, I think they do, _amante_." Istan laughed and hoisted his pack. "Lead on, brothers."

Despite fleeing Ferelden during the Blight, Istan's clan had endured painful losses in the years since Duncan took him for the Wardens. Suffering heavy casualties from the horde of darkspawn, they fled Ferelden entirely, crossing the Waking Sea to the Free Marches. Shortly after their arrival, they suffered more loss, as pestilence took the entire herd of halla. Devastated by the violent death of their beloved Keeper Marethari at the hands of their exiled First seven years after fleeing Ferelden, the clan later returned, leaderless and broken.

When Istan heard of the events at Sundermount, he sent messengers across the northern countries until he found a potential new First in Cumberland, and arranged for her travel to meet the clan. Now Keeper, the strong-willed, vocal woman had sent Istan several tart notes each winter since, updating him on the clan's rebuilding and threatening some nebulous retaliation for tricking her into relocating to such a frigid clime.

"From the stories, I expected you to wear a necklace of hurlock skulls and wield a flaming sword taller than you, Mahariel." Elani tilted her head to look first Istan then Zevran up and down.

"And from the report from your birth clan, Elani, I looked for you to be seven feet tall with a gaze that melts stone," Istan retorted.

"We Keepers have our secrets." She smirked. "I must say that I was surprised to hear that you wished to summer with the clan, _lethallin_, after your time with the Wardens and the Crows. You may find the peace and pace disquieting after such adventures."

"That may be, Keeper, but I need to find out," he linked his hand with Zevran's, "_we_ need to find out if there is a future for us here."

~oOo~

Several weeks of winding through the northernmost edges of the Korcari Wilds, and Zevran found himself adjusting to the routines of camp life. A dozen years spent keeping his lover alive and safe from their enemies without and overly-ambitious Crows within had left him in close to the same shape he was at the height of the coup. Initially skeptical, it had not taken long for his fellow hunters to reevaluate the foreign elf.

At first seeming to revel in the peace and once-familiar rhythms of life in the clan, Istan had grown reflective over the last week, since their emergence into the scrubby hills south of Lothering. A quiet conversation with Istan's adoptive mother, Ashalle, made the reason plain.

"Did Perro fetch you here for me?" Istan stood faced away from Zevran, on a stone dais in the center of a large circular room. The vault and the ruins of the ancient temple around it were choked with tree roots and broken stone blocks, and smelled of old blood, dust, and a dark, bestial scent that Zevran had last smelled much farther below ground.

Zevran picked his way through the rubble to the base of the steps. "When you were not at my side when I awoke, the mangy one led me to the path. From the remains in the other rooms, it seems that the ghosts of this place have yet to find their peace." A trace of anger colored his voice. "We have an agreement, you and I, about entering into potentially dangerous situations alone."

Istan flinched and half-turned towards Zevran. "I know," he said finally. "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking clearly. I just … I had to come."

"As you were driven to return to Ferelden, to the Dalish lands," Zevran said. "And have you found what you sought?"

"I don't know why I thought there might have been some trace of him left here, something not tainted and twisted into—" Istan crossed his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunched. "Why do I still see him at odd moments, all these years later? We had that time, what there was of it; why can I not seem to let him rest?" Suddenly stricken, he turned and met Zevran's gaze. "It isn't that I wish …"

Zevran moved quickly to Istan's side. "_Carino. _Who but I could better understand? As Tamlen holds that place in your thoughts, so Rinna does in mine—you know this. They were young and wrongly taken, and may never rest easy. But I will not be jealous of something … some_one_ who is part of you, part of what makes you the person you are."

Istan choked and pulled him into his arms. "I could live to be a hundred and never be as wise."

Zevran chuckled softly. "Ah, but you were not raised in a whorehouse, my Warden. Books can only take one so far."

~oOo~

Four months took them to the foothills of the Frostbacks, and the clan was preparing to return to the Brecilian and their winter lands. Zevran woke alone once more, to the sounds of industry and good-natured bickering. Not finding his Warden, he made for the Keeper's aravel, the center of a whirlwind of activity and a small crowd of hunters.

"_Buenos dias_, Keeper, and might I say what a …"

"Stuff the smarm, Zev, I have a thousand things to do today."

Zevran watched in fascination as tiny bolts of electricity chased one another over the arch of Elani's raised eyebrow. "Ah, understood. How may I be of assistance?"

"If you've free hands, Maren tells me that one of the does has gone into labor."

Remembering his earlier introduction to halla parturition, Zevran asked, "Might Istan be about? I am sure that his experienced hands will be of more use than my fumbling ones."

"Off again—to think more deep thoughts, presumably. Find the mutt, find the master." She nodded in dismissal and turned back to the hunters.

True to the Keeper's prediction, Perro found Zevran at the edge of camp and led him to the tree-lined south shore of Lake Calenhad.

"You strike a dramatic figure against the lake, with the fog rising off the blue of the water." Zevran smiled as he joined Istan on a downed log.

"I didn't want to wake you, as late as you were awake on watch." Istan shrugged. "And I needed to be away from the bustle for a little while."

"You need not explain your need for solitude, _carino_. It is as much a part of you as your exemplary taste in companions."

"I do have good taste, it is true." Istan smiled and brushed a stray blond lock back from Zevran's temple. "A few more platinum strands, I see."

"Perhaps there is something that the Keeper can do to help your eyesight? Until then I will indulge you your fantasy." Zevran looked out over the water, at towering Redcliffe castle, just visible in the distance. "Is it still your intention to follow the clan and make for the winter lands?"

Istan flinched, and turned to stare at Zevran. "How did you know that I was having second thoughts? I've been wanting to speak with you about it for weeks, I only …"

"You only what, my Warden?"

"We left our life in Antiva—your guild, my school, our home; left everything to pursue this … compulsion to rejoin my people."

"Only after spending more than a decade pursuing mine. But if I were to guess, you have not found the clan quite as you left it? Or perhaps that you are not the man who left, so many years ago?"

Istan glowered at him. "You might have suggested the possibility of this outcome when we were warm and being fussed over in Antiva, you know."

"Ah, but that is what the stories demand, is it not? The hero returns to his home in triumph after a long and storied career, to find there is no longer a place in that life for him."

"But where does he go?" Istan smirked. "He and his dog and trusty sidekick, that is."

"Sidekick? _Y el caballo que montaba en el, amigo._"

"We left all the horses in Antiva."

"It is but an expression." Zevran chuckled. "Still … were you not saying on our journey south how you enjoyed it, as you never had during the Blight?"

"I did—very much so." Istan tangled his fingers with Zevran's, bringing the scarred bronze hand to his lips. "Are you suggesting that we simply … journey? With no destination? No … purpose?"

"What need do the two of us have for more purpose? I for one had enough of it several years back. There are mountains to see, rivers to cross, moonlit glades to dance naked in."

"I knew nudity would come into it sooner or later."

"I am what I am, _amado_."

"And I thank the Creators every day that you are, beloved."

* * *

_A small gift for Ventisquear, a wonderfully talented writer and artist, and fellow Cheeky Monkey. Special thanks to mille libri for her keen beta eye and great suggestions._


End file.
